


four part remedy

by zealotarchaeologist



Category: Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice
Genre: Established Relationship, Haircuts, Intimacy, M/M, No Spoilers, takes place after my previous fic with these two. they are sort of dating.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 18:03:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18504232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zealotarchaeologist/pseuds/zealotarchaeologist
Summary: Don't fear god, don't worry about death;What is good is easy to get, what is terrible is easy to endure.





	four part remedy

**Author's Note:**

> i've had the pleasure of some good conversations lately about romantic pairings in this game and how intense it must be to experience gentle contact when one is so used to a violent and painful world. so i thought i'd write something along those lines. if i write similar stuff in the future i may add it as additional chapters to this.
> 
> inspired by that one pc mod that gives wolf facial hair. god he's so handsome.

His opponent closes in on him fast, relentless sweeps closing the distance. Sekiro holds his stance until the blade almost touches his face then sidesteps, whirling with a heavy strike aimed to cut deep into the enemy’s stomach. His opponent blocks it, their swords come together and ring with the clarity of a bell. In the focused haze of battle, his eyes follow the tip of the blade. He sees the thrust before it comes, the arc of the body, the harsh forward motion too close to be avoided—and he catches the sword by its tip, slams it hard to the ground, pinning it. The momentum wraps him around his trapped enemy, allowing him the perfect opportunity to wrench his head back and stab deep, deep through him. Arteries severed, organs hit. He can feel the life leaving, their bodies pressed flush together.

The corpse in his arms shudders, moving as if pulled on invisible strings. “Good work.” Hanbei tilts his head back as he returns to life, bringing their faces very near to each other. “Your hair has gotten long. I can feel it.”

Abruptly and with no small amount of embarrassment, Sekiro realizes he’s pressed his face to the other man’s neck, closer than he would with a real opponent. He steps back, and Hanbei stumbles for a moment before finding his feet. “Don’t take it so personally!”

Sekiro rubs at his jaw. It’s true, his beard is growing in. When was the last time he looked at his own reflection? He can hardly remember.

“It suits you.”

He shakes his head. “It is not befitting.” He cannot serve his lord looking like he’s been living out in the woods…even if he _has_ been living out in the woods.

Hanbei steps closer to him. That is the main difference, now, the closeness that is now intentional. “I could cut it for you.”

“Yes.” The response is automatic, before he even thinks. It’s strange to consider how he might _want_ to look. He has never put much thought into his appearance, favoring practicality over aesthetics.

They prepare under the shelter of the little shrine, a basin of water beside them. Sekiro kneels, formal, as if preparing for execution. Hanbei is behind him, he can feel the presence even with his head bowed and eyes mostly closed. Deft fingers pull the knot from his hair. It falls loose to his shoulders, the sensation strange—he hasn’t taken it down in days, if not longer. “How do you want it?”

“So it can’t catch on anything, or be caught.” No enemy ever gets close enough to pull it, but one can’t be too careful.

He can feel Hanbei moving his hair this way and that. Holding it loose, then straight. Running his hands through it to comb it. He has to steel himself in order not to react. When was the last time anyone touched it? When was the last time anyone touched him with this much softness and care? It feels better than he can understand, let alone express.

Owl used to cut it for him, when he was young. His father was not so gentle.

“Hold still.” The voice of his friend from behind him, ringing so close to his ear. He fights back a shiver as those hands card through his hair a final time, then gently pull it taught. The blade slices through it like grass, a clean and practical cut. There’s another pull, just at the left side now, then another cut. The motion is repeated on the right. A long pause, as Hanbei checks the symmetry of his work. “Hm, you should wear it down more often. When you’re not fighting.”

“Thank you.” He probably won’t take the advice, but then, he’s never really considered it. Hasn’t worn it like that since he was a child, freshly plucked from war. He can hardly imagine what it would look like.

“Want to see?” It’s as if Hanbei read his thoughts, offering the basin to look in.

What he sees is a wolflike man, his shape wavering in the water. His hair is straight and elegant, his beard coming in along his jaw. His eyes are still set and determined, like the last time (how long ago?) he saw himself (before this all started.) But there is a confidence newly present in his face. His brow, for the moment, is unfurrowed.

“Will you…” He trails off, then presses a hand to his jawline. The stubble makes him look a little more wild. Hanbei’s own chonmage is immaculately shaved, even as the rest of him goes to tatters. No doubt he has experience doing this.

“Shave it?” He unsheathes his knife, glances at the blade for sharpness. “I can.”

Sekiro tilts his chin up, angling it for ease of access. “Please.”

Face to face, kneeling close, it’s almost too intimate. One of Hanbei’s hands (big hands, his mind helpfully adds) cradles the side of his face, holding him still. The knife slides down slow, cheek to jaw. He couldn’t move even if he wanted to, couldn’t speak even if he could find the words.

It scrapes under the bone of his jaw. Down over his neck, the pulse there. It would take only the slightest pressure to break the skin. His body, well-trained, wants to react to the threat. It is good practice, maintaining his calm and focus even as his heart feels like it might leap from his chest.

“I appreciate it.” Hanbei’s voice is as steady as his hands. “Your trust in me.”

Sekiro cannot respond, not with the blade so close. He doesn’t need to. His stillness confirms that trust. There is nothing to fear. They have bled each other out before. Death, pain, violence…all that is easier to quantify than the ache blooming in him now. It grows with each pass of the blade’s edge over his jaw.

When he’s done, Hanbei sheathes the blade and examines his work. He raises a hand—Sekiro nods, just slightly—and brushes fingertips to his cheek. There is no pretense for the touching now, but he does not mind it.

“Thank you.” He speaks solemnly, sincerely.

“I’m glad to be of use.”

Their faces are so close, Sekiro knows what his body wants him to do. But Hanbei has been steadfast about not uncovering his mouth, so—

\--he catches the hand before it can move away, before he really even knows what he’s doing, and presses his mouth to Hanbei’s open palm.

His lips are not soft. Nor is Hanbei’s skin. But that’s part of all he wishes to say his thanks for—that there need be no pretense between them, no reason for them to be anything but themselves. Walking corpses, maybe, but still here.

“…you’re full of surprises, aren’t you.”

He smiles just slightly against Hanbei’s palm, then lets him go.


End file.
